Beatlemania
by bookwormillau
Summary: Mitchie Robeson is a modern-day teenager who has grown up despising the Beatles due to her mother's obsession with 60s music. That's why she's dismayed when she finds that she's been transported back in time to the year 1964, to a time called..Beatlemania
1. HELP!

BeatleMania Chapter One- HELP!

"M-o-o-o-m!" I groan for about the hundredths time today. My mom is definitely the most embarrassing mother on the planet. You don't believe me? Right now she was strutting around our apartment modeling a psychedelic hippie poncho with fringe hanging from the bottom. In only a few minutes, we'll be driving to a Paul McCartney in our 1950s Volt wagon Beatle. Embarrassing, I know. It's the story of my life.

"Mo-o-om, do I have to go?" I ask, plopping myself down on her bed and bouncing softly up and down.

My mom whirls around to face me as she struggles to tie her long, frizzy blond hair into a scrunchie that may have been cool in about 1980. "Oh course!" She enthuses. "You'll love it!" She grins broadly and elbows me teasingly. "Paul McCartney is such a dream."

I roll my eyes. "Mom." I try to reason with her. "Tell me why again we have to go."

Instead of replying, my mother starts to hum loudly. "Tell me why you cried, and why you lied to me…Tell me why you cried, and why you lied to me." I don't know for sure, but I can only guess that it's a Beatles song.

"Do you know what this will do to my already low ranking social image? I'll tell you. I'll tell you. My reputation will be ruined!" I'm pacing around the apartment now, muttering to myself. "I never ruined your reputation, did I? Oh noooo. I never did anything to bring disgrace to your reputation."

As I pace back and forth, my voice is increasing in volume and speed. At last my face is only inches away from hers and I'm on the verge of a meltdown. "But now _you_ are doing this to me. You think your little Paul is real cute, don't ya? Well let me tell you mom, he's 70 years old! 70. Sev- en-ty. _Normal"- _my voice cracks on the word normal-"_Normal _seventh graders don't spend their time hanging out in some hippie joint listening to hippie music with their hippie moms!"

For a moment my mother looks bewildered, as if she has no clue what I mean by 'normal'.

My arms are flailing and the words are flying out of my mouth like bullets. "My _life _is turning into a ride on the Magical Mystery Tour bus!"

My mom recovers her shock, brushing me away and giggling. "Oh Michelle, you are so dramatic."

I grit my teeth. "It's Mitchie." I say for the umpteenth time. My mom named me Michelle, after her favorite song, "Michelle" by the Beatles. Surprise, surprise.

Unlike my mother, I'm normal. Which basically means I happen to have a problem with being named after some loserish song from the sixties. From the day I turned ten, it's been simply "Mitchie." My mom either has trouble remembering that, or has blocked it from her mind, because not once has she ever called me that. _Not once._

My mom slips on a pair of clunky clogs. "They still fit!" she exclaims gleefully. I collapse onto my mom's bed and groan. It's hopeless.

My mom and I have totally different taste in clothes: I wear name- brand Areopastle, she wears home-made tie die, I wear skinny jeans, she wears overalls, I wear mini-skirts, she wears long flowy skirts that go down to her ankles. See a pattern going? We are not alike at all.

In fact, just this morning my mom had tried to convince me to wear a total hippie getup like hers. She actually wanted me to put a DANDILION in my HAIR. If there is one thing Mitchie Robinson does not do, it's wear flowers in her hair.

It was a long and desperate struggle, but it the end I got away with wearing only a Beatles T-shirt. As we head out of the apartment, I grab my fuzzy black sweater and zip it up to the top, completely covering my T-shirt. As a finishing touch, I slip my hood over my head and whip on a pair of sunglasses. I look like a stalker, and sure, it's ninety degrees out, but hey, anything's better than being seen in a Beatles T-shirt.

When my mom isn't looking, I stuff my ipod into my GO-GREEN tote (not my pattern choice, by the way) If worse comes to worse with this McCartney guy, I can always plug in my tunes and escape.

"Michelle!" My mom calls from down the stairs. I don't bother to correct her, to say "It's Mitchie.", instead I quickly shut the door, lock it, and hurry down the stairs. "We're gonna be late."

As we load into the car, my mom looks back. "You would look so good in tie- dye." She announces wistfully.

I slam the car door and scoot into my seat. "LET. ME. BE."

Of course, that is the perfect cue for my mom to burst into song. "Whisper words of wisdom…let it be….let it be."

I wince at every note she sings note off-key. I pride myself on having a pretty decent singing voice, and listening to my mother's off-pitch yodels makes me gag.

I yank my phone out of my bag and begin texting furiously, my thumbs flying across the keyboard.  
Me: yo, Loretta r u there?

**Loretta: yup**** wazzup?**

Me: on my way to paul mccartney concert…ugh!

**Loretta: paul mcWHO?**

Me: exactly.

**Loretta: lemme guess: your mom, right?**

Me: yea… I NEED HELP!

**Loretta: help, I need some body…help not just anybody….**

Me: not funny. U sound like my mom.

I considered scribbling the message "HELP!" on a sheet of notebook paper and holding it up to the car window so that maybe…just maybe, if we passed a police car…they'd track us down and put my mom in jail for kidnapping charges, but I didn't have any paper with me.

Shoot.

By the time we arrive, I have learned to tune out my mom's singing. I head out of the car and into the concert hall. My mom is practically red in the face. She squeezes my hand. "I'm so nervous…" She confides in me. "I just can't wait! Do you think Paul will notice how nervous I am?"

"Uh, no, mom." I respond. "I don't think so."


	2. Helter Skelter

Chapter Two- helter skelter

The whole joint is jammed full of withering lovesick old people all yearning to see Paul- what's-his-face. My mother is among them. She's dressed fully in sixties apparel, although that isn't anything new. Under normal circumstances, I would be humiliated to death right about now, but glancing around, my mom fit right in. I have to say I was surprised. I mean, my mom's _never, _and I mean _never, _fit in _any_where.

My mom goes to buy her tickets, humming along to the tune, "A Ticket To Ride." leaving me to find some decent seats. I'm tempted to choose seats all the way in the back but decide against it. I realize doing that would only mean having my mom dragging me to the front by my ankles in front of anybody, which wouldn't help for my plan to keep a low profile.

My mom returns with a enormous cardboard 'I LOVE YOU PAUL' sign, waving it around like a lunatic. If I had known she had one of those, I would have never let her left the house.

So much for keeping a low profile.

I take out my phone and start texting Loretta again to pass the time before the concert starts.

Me: hi again

**Loretta: r u there yet?**

Me: yup

**Loretta: how bad is it? **

Me: pretty bad…my mom is waving a sign around that says I LOVE YOU PAUL.

**Loretta: wow.**

Me: u think I'm a geek right?

Loretta: no comment

Me: THANKS!

Loretta: just doing my job….

Me: gotta go, its starting and my mom's gonna kill me

**Loretta: ouch. well maybe you'll have fun**

Me: seriously doubt it.

The concert begins with a bang. I mean, the whole place is totally- er- to quote my mom: helter skelter. I yank out my ipod and scroll through my songs. BOOM BOOM POW and Lady GaGa echo through my ears. I smile contentedly and sink into my seat. Now _that's_ my kind of music, I think to myself.

It isn't long until I start drifting off, even with my ipod as an companion. I figure that, hey, if I can sleep for another one, one and a half hours, I've got it made. I wake up and the whole thing'll be a distant nightmare, right?

Wrong.

I awake with a start when my mother jabs her elbow into my ribs. She gestures toward the stage excitedly, obviously not aware that she'd just woken me from my sound sleep. "What?" I hiss, leaning towards her. Her eyes sparkle and I follow them towards the stage.

Paul is speaking. "So." He continues in his thick accent, a smile in his voice. He peers into the audience. "It looks like I need a volunteer from the audience to come up here and sing with me…."

He grins, and it's apparent to me his old charm just isn't there any longer. But it seems to me that the others don't think the same. Surrounding me, cheers erupt, the whole place just explodes into a frenzy of jumping and shoving and screams, which I am in the middle of. I hold my hands tight to my head over my ears, trying to just melt into my seat and disappear into the mob. That's not easy, considering my mother is one of those who is leaping around shrieking like a lovesick stands up and waves her sign around. I duck in my seat, before my mom whacks me with the colossal hunk of cardboard.

"How about that young lady, right there, you in the Beatles T-shirt." Paul points and yells over the crazed fans.

I look around for the unlucky person, but to my utter dismay I see all eyes looking eagerly to me. My eyes travel from the audience, following their way to the front, where I see that Old Man McCartney's eyes are fixed on me too. And that can only mean one thing: I've been picked. I have been _picked. _Picked to go up. Picked to sing. Picked to sing a Paul McCartney song in front of everybody. _Everybody. _

My plan to stay undercover has gone terribly, terribly wrong.

I gulp, my eyes wide. My mom is jumping out of her seat in excitement. "Go Michelle!" she squeals. Before I can say "it's Mitchie." She shoves me into the aisle. I want to turn back, but my feet think otherwise. They direct me towards the stage, guiding me, pulling me there like a force I can't understand. I stumble onto the stage. And then…


	3. You Know My Name

Chapter Three- you know my name

I stand before them. The audience. I face them, my body totally rigid, totally numb, unable to move, to feel, to react. My heart pounds out of my chest, as if rhythm of Ringo's drums, a kind of spooky music. Spooky as in Revolution 9 kind of spooky.

The audience stares back at me, a average 13-year-old girl who has been stuffed into a Beatles T-shirt and thrown on stage. And I stare back. There's nothing else I _can_ do.

For a single moment, the world is totally in sinc with my mother: frozen in time.

Paul turns, breaking the silence and tension with his cheery smile as he hands me the microphone. "All right! You must be one of my younger fans, eh?"

I want to say no, say no I'm not, not at all, but my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth and I can't say anything, nothing at all. And the funny thing is- for a moment there, looking into that poor old man's sparkling droopy eyes, I want to say, oh yes, I am a fan, I am a fan of The Beatles and more importantly you.

I _will_sing a song for you, and I'm not afraid, that's what I really want to say, but I don't get the chance to because Paul is staring into my eyes for the first time, really looking at me.

He tilts his head, in disbelief and then he says- in a hoarse whisper that echoes throughout the whole room, he says- "Michelle?"

I don't understand it, but not only do I nod, I do not insist upon Mitchie. My mind reels. How does he know my name? How does he know me? _How does he know me? _

_"_Michelle." He repeats in disbelief.

I don't say anything, what do I say to this old man? He doesn't know me, how can he? I've never joined his fan club, or written him a letter, or had him sign my CD. How in heck _could_ he know me? There's something seriously wrong with this man, maybe some drugs back in the day.

But if that's true- how come theirs a little nagging inside me, a little tug at my insides that does recognize him somehow._Some_how. Looking to his eyes, his familiar eyes, just old and withered a more, but his eyes nonetheless…somehow I knew him, in another time and place where he was not just a crazy old man.

He places his hand on my face, stroking it, whispering to himself. I'm shaking, but resist the urge to pull away.

The audience is confused, and so am I. Murmurs arise from the crowd, and people start turning heads.

A man appears from backstage, entering from the side. "Paul?" He hisses. "Paul get on with it." I stare at the man longingly. _Get me out of this_. I send him a mental message. Get me out of _this,_get me out of _here. _

"Paul." The man repeats urgently. "You're scaring her."

He _is_ scaring me.

Paul ignores the man.

"Michelle?" His voice rises. "You don't…remember me?"

I give a tiny little shake of my head. My insides are churning in my stomach, twisting a little knot around the pit in the middle of it. And then- I get sick, all over Sir Paul McCartney's brand-new leather shoes.

I'm not proud of this.


	4. If I Fell

Chapter Four- If I Fell

Before I can die from humiliation, I feel myself rocking on my feet, my whole body goes limp and I get dizzy. An image of the young Paul McCartney flashes through my mind and I squeeze my eyes shut and smile like nothing else matters. I brace myself for the impact of what I know is coming, and I feel myself coming crashing down onto the stage.


	5. Im Only Sleeping

Chapter Five- IM ONLY SLEEPING

**When I awake, my neck is cramped, the kind of feeling you get when you fall asleep on the couch and wake up in middle of the night with your joints all achy and sore. All symptoms of a nightmare. **

**The voices clouded into focus, blurry and distant, urging me to get back to the present. **

"**Honey…try and hold on!" The man's voice is frantic. **

Then I feel myself fading away… and there are new voices. "Are you hurt?" A male voice asks worriedly. It is easy to tell he was not from here, in fact, he has a thick British accent which I find to be rather attractive despite my pain.

"**Please…stay with us…" The voice is begging me, but I can't do anything about it. There is **_**two of me,**_** tugging at each other. **

From somewhere near, I hear the sounding footsteps, coming nearer to me. There is crowding around me, people's screams, voices, giggles. Somebody is studying me; I know it. "Is she dead?" a frightened British voice demands to know.

"**Breathe." The voice is in muffled tones . "C'mon, breathe…" Gravity is pulling me away, pulling me away…..**

"….Killed in the mob, do you think?" This time it was the second voice, the one who had thought I was dead.

"She's not dead, you idiot." A disgusted voice replies, stepping closer to me for a closer look.

"We killed her."

"We didn't! She's very much alive, she's breathing…see?"

"**We're losing her." The voice is tight with worry. "Breathe, honey, breathe. You can do it." But I can't. I'm slipping away from what I know is real...to something much more powerful.**

**I'm slipping…I'm slipping…I'm gone. **

A burst of bright blue light sweeps through my face and a tingling sensation rings through my entire body. I shield my eyes, squinting in the light.

When I flutter open my eyes, I see four semi- identical heads and one great big nose staring down at me.


	6. I've Just Seen A Face

Chapter Six- ive just seen a face

The four figures eye me suspiciously, their eyebrows raised. One of them stands in front of the others, clutching a guitar over his shoulder as a weapon. The other three stand huddled behind him.

Despite the temporary loss of all my senses, I can't help but notice that these men, all clad in suits, bearing odd haircuts, look oddly familiar.

Too familiar.

My glance goes from one man to another, desperately hoping for an escape for the realization that is inching it's way into my mind.

I see the face of Paul McCartney at the concert for a moment, all wrinkled and withered and old and worn, and then it fades and melts into one of the men standing before me: thick dark brown locks, a raised eyebrow over his deep droopy sparkling eyes…somewhat chubby cheeks and a doubtful expression. And that's when I know.

These men….

They are the Beatles.


	7. Cry Baby Cry

**WARNING: This chapter really, really, sucks. So don't expect anything good.**

**I'm thinking of reposting it, but I'm gonna keep it for now because...well, I dunno, I just got sick of writing and re-writing the chapter and didn't want to keep ya'll waiting. **

**Thank you to all of my readers for your friendly reveiws and story alerts! They make me feel really special and are what keeps this story going.**

**Chapter Seven- cry baby cry**

It can't be. It just can't be. It just isn't. I was at the concert...at the Paul McCartney concert, and now...here he is, young again, right before my eyes.

This isn't happening.

No. Just…no. The Beatles aren't _really_ right in front of me…no, they aren't _really _here. I'm hallucinating, I'm delusional, I'm crazy….but the Beatles aren't really here.

I blink. "What the…." I mumble dizzily, bringing my hands to my eyes and rubbing them until they water. "…heck?"

Ringo looks down at me, as if staring at me in a whole new light. "Would you look at that, the thing talks." He observes, obviously delighted at this discovery.

George studies me intently, his dark eyes glittering threatingly. "That it does."

"Are you hurt?" This is John's voice.

"John…" I manage to gasp out to words.

"Are you hurt?" The voice repeats.

"Nasty cut on her forehead, in't it." Paul comments warily.

"Me mum always used tro bandage up me cuts real. Wonder if she has a mum?" Ringo says, as if remembering fond memories.

I'm not listening to Ringo's rambling, I'm still in shock. "Wha- no…..you…." The words can't come out all at once. "You…you…are….you were…" My mind reels. "Murdered."

This I know, because whenever I insult my mother's taste in music, she always threatens to sic the spirit of John Lennon's ghost on me.

This was not possible, not possible, not possible, not happening. I had been, last time I checked, at the concert, up, on stage, at the concert, and now….now this.

I can tell, looking up into their eyes, from the doubtful expressions on their faces, that they think I am crazy. Maybe I am. They exchange worried glances and look like they are about to take off.

"NO!" I say suddenly, bolting upright into a sitting position. "NO. I need help."

George gives me a disgusted glare. "Obviously."

"No…that's…that's not what I mean. It's…it isn't supposed to be like this. You're not supposed to be here." I stumble for the right words as I turn to face them.

Ringo slowly backs away.

I stand up, wobbling on my feet. "I mean…you-" I point to George. I spin around to face John. "And you, you too…uh…." I hesitate for a moment, his name on the tip of my tongue. "Sir…" I finish lamely.

"You are both supposed to be dead."

"Am I?" John says innocently.

"Yes…yes…You are dead."

The four men exchange worried glances.

I can't take this anymore, this going back and forth, this madness, this insane journey my mind has taken me on. I start to cry. A long, dismal sob. I cry until my eyes get red and puffy, and my cheeks become raw and tearstained. I cry until I'm out of breath and just can't cry anymore.

"Hey, look, it's Paul McCartney!" I stop crying and listen in interest, my eyes following the squeal from across the street on the corner. That's where I see a crazy mob of teenage girls, pointing in our direction. They dash across the street after us, giggling and screaming.

"It _is_ him!"

"I'd recongnize him anywhere!"

"Are the others with him?"

Looking next to me, I see the Beatles have already started to make a run for it.

I do the same.

**Sorry. I know. Suckish. I'm still trying to get a feel for the whole "British accent" thing. And, yeah, I know, lame way to end the chapter, blah- de blah blah. **

**But I'm hoping the next chapter will make up for it because so far I'm really lovin' the next chapter.**


	8. No Reply

DISLCAIMER: I don't own the Beatles, as much as I would like to.

Note: Ok, I'm really proud of this chapter hope you like it and thanks to all my faithful readers!

Chapter eight- No reply

I run until my legs aching and sore and can't possibly go another inch. I don't care where I've come from, or where I'm headed to, I just want to end up away, away, away…away from all of it, back home to my mom, or even back to the concert on that stage, as long as I am not here. Anywhere but here.

I stop short at a corner, panting, huffing, wheezing. I put my hands on my knees to rest for a single moment, then I lift my head and my eyes wander. I've run for blocks, a mile even. I'm away, far, far away, but I'm farther away from where I started and I don't know where I am. Nothing is familiar. Nothing. I'm lost and alone and possibly going crazy and nothing is familiar.

My eyes don't wander long until they spot an old-fashioned telephone booth. I quickly dart towards it and into the booth. Somehow, it made me feel safer. Somehow, being in such a closed in little place made me feel sheltered. Protected.

I study the telephone. I've never used a payphone, believe it or not. With cell phones, it isn't' necessary, honestly. There are buttons- and a phone and a cord. It won't be that hard, I think. That is, until I eye the little slot on the side of the payphone. INSERT 25 CENTS, it reads.

I search my black fuzzy-wuzzy sweater for some change, emptying out my pockets: a bubblegum wrapper, the key to my apartment, a ball of lint, my ipod, and a bright shiny new quarter.

I insert it into the slot, grateful that I didn't spend that money on the vending machine yesterday in the cafeteria.

With the change now inserted, I hesitantly press a button. I dial my home number, the one that I've known by heart since I was four. Even in this strange new place, it is one thing I can be sure of.

All I have to do is call her. I think to myself, cheering myself on. All I have to do is call my mother. I'll tell her my predicament. Then she'll do what she always does: she'll quote some wise old proverb, probably from a Beatles song, and that will make everything A-OK.

All I have to do is- No. No, that's not true. I think. My mom never answers her phone. Never. She wouldn't even have a cell phone if I hadn't given her my old one. _I _wouldn't even have a cell phone if I hadn't raised half the money for it myself. She hates the things. She calls them silly and new-fangled.

Mom. I send her a telepathic message. Answer your phone. Answer your phone. Just this once. Answer your phone. My finger lingers on the last number: nine. Number nine, number nine, number nine, number nine…number NINE…NUMBER NINE. I press down with my finger and then hit call.

As I wait for the phone to start ringing, I notice that sticking out of the telephone book is a fairly new newspaper. I open it up to the page that's been marked and my eyes scan the newspaper. I'm not really reading it, more like just skimming it to take my mind off my problems. The headline reads:

**BRISTISH INVASION AFFECTING MINORS ACROSS THE COUNTRY**

British Invasion? I've heard of an alien invasion, or even a zombie invasion, but never a British one. I continue reading.

**Are you letting your children listen to the new British bands such as The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Zombies, The Moody Blues and many more? Allowing your children to attend the concerts of these bands is affecting their physical and mental safety. **

One ring. I jump and cross my fingers.

**The frenzy, hysteria and screaming taking place at Beatles (and other) concerts is resulting in broken police barriers and hospital visits. **

Two rings.

**Not only that, the Beatles (and others) are influencing minors all over the country to grow out their hair, wear tight jeans, boots, or surfer shirts, and overall become rebels. **

Three rings.

**Some radio stations have devoted their entire channel to British rock bands, and still others are Beatles only music all day long. But the question is- should you be exposing your children to this music?**

Four rings, and somebody picking up. My heart leaps out of my chest. I don't wait for a reply, maybe because I'm afraid there won't be one. The words pour out of my mouth with haste: "Mom? I'm lost and alone and confused and I need you to pick me up. I'm stuck someplace-

I poke my head out of the telephone booth and squint in the sunlight, trying to make out the lettering on the street sign. The block capitol white letters spell out a familiar phrase, something that I must have heard somewhere but I can't concentrate on remembering right now. "Abbey Road, mom. I'm stuck on Abbey Road."

I keep squinting, really studying for the first time the street. Something odd is going on. There are cars, longer and bigger than I remember them. There are people, but their clothes are funkier and more colorful than I remember. The sun shifts and my view blurs.

I duck back into the telephone booth, now looking down at the newspaper once more. "I need you to pick me up from Abbey Road, ok?"

My eyes wander towards the top of the newspaper article, then back to the street and back again to the article.

"Mom…something weird is going on." My eyes widen, reading and re-reading those unbelievable words on the top of the newspaper. Sunday, June 13th….."Mom-"

I am interrupted by a dial tone. I sadly lower the receiver from my head, my eyes glazed over, glaring at the fine print on the top of the newspaper.

A sudden jolt goes through me, a surge of electricity. mages flood through my mind, jumbled and in quick flashes, warping in all directions: My Beatles T- shirt, my mom's I LOVE PAUL poster, the crowd's eyes glued to me, the familiar stare of the old Paul McCartney….everything goes black, then the memories flood back again: the confused faces of the young Beatles, the city blurring past me as I run, the old-fashioned telephone booth, the street sign, the strange cars and people, and finally my mind zooms in on the fine print on the top of the newspaper article:

Sunday, June 13th.

Sunday, June 13th….

Sunday, June 13th, 1964.


	9. Not A Second Time

**I know, another short chapter, but I wanted to update before I forgot, so here it is. I hope you enjoy it despite it's shortness.**

Chapter Nine- Not a Second Time

Before I can finish mentally processing this overload of information, the screams begin. As I turn my head on instinct, my hair whips across my face and I have to squint to see through the long strands of hair covering my eyes.

Looking around, I kind of expect the scene to be in black and white. The fact that it's in color makes it all the more real.

I duck back into the telephone booth, my fingernails digging into the red siding of the booth as I stand tensely, stiffly, not daring to move a muscle. I can only watch in disbelief.

I can't believe my eyes, but this scene- this mob. I recognize it. The teenagers that are grabbing at the Beatles' suits, reaching for their hair, trailing after them. I recognize their every gesture, their every movement.

I recognize it.

The familarness grabs a hold of me, eating at my insides. There is a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as every ounce of doubt disappears: _I've seen this._

How? How have I seen this?

How could I have seen something that happened back in 1964?

You can't recognize something that happened before you were born. You just can't.

I am going crazy.

My mind is reeling. This is too much, too much on my nerves. I lean against the side of the booth, my sweaty forehead resting on the cool metal.

A Hard Day's Night suddenly starts blasting from a radio nearby and I jump about a mile.

That's when it hits me: This scene. The street, the cars, the telephone booths, the Beatles and their fans. I _have_ seen this.

In a movie.

In the movie "A Hard Days Night" to be exact.


End file.
